


hold tight

by Lyre (Lyrecho)



Category: Persona 5
Genre: 2/2 spoilers, Also Goro And Ann Are My Faves And I Just Think They'd Have An Interesting Dynamic, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Genfic But Hints At Several Pairings, I Just Love Goro A Lot Okay And 2/2 Broke Me, Mostly Shuake; Shihoann; Fusumi; Makoharu; Ryuann, Not Persona 5 Vanilla Fic, Oneshot, Persona 5 Royal Fic, What Do You Name The Grief That Comes Before The Loss?, but still canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27364894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrecho/pseuds/Lyre
Summary: No one should have to spend their last night on earth alone.|Tumblr||Twitter|
Relationships: Akechi Goro & Takamaki Ann, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira
Comments: 20
Kudos: 117





	hold tight

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't really feel like this warranted a full work tag, but there's one brief instance of "underage drinking" -- the character in question (haru) is eighteen, which in my country is the legal drinking age, so I don't really see an issue with it, but it still counts as underage drinking in japan, as well as in many other countries, so i'm putting a note of it here, just in case.
> 
> other than that, all i really have to say is this is the first persona 5 fic i've written since like, 2018, so please forgive me if my grasp of the characters is rusty!
> 
> also completely unbeta'd and mostly written late at night so if there are typos, please forgive me.  
> title is from the edge of dawn: "so i wish i could hide away; hold tight to what i love, keep cruel fate at bay"

The night before the final battle, Ann is just shoving a frozen pizza into her microwave when her phone chimes with an alert -- the PT chat, with a message from Futaba.

 _Hey,_ it says, with an **@everyone** following it, _can you guys make it to Leblanc? Mona says Akira is calling an emergency meeting._

Well. That could mean a lot of things, really, but Ann doesn't bother wasting time to ask questions. She sends in a _be right there!_ right on the tails of everyone else's own confirmations and presses cancel on her pizza. She tugs out a slice, and tests it -- lukewarm. She shrugs, and shovels it into her mouth, scooping up her keys and bag as she moves to her front door, sliding on her jacket and toeing on her shoes.

The air outside is winter fresh, but she forges through it, knowing she'll soon be at Leblanc -- and if Akira doesn't have a nice, hot, fresh pot of coffee ready for them, she'll set one of the tables on fire to warm them all up instead. If he doesn't want to have to try and explain _that_ to Boss, he'll do what he knows is good for them.

The subway is quiet, which Ann is grateful for. She slides in her headphones and listens to Risette's latest album for the ride over.

She's not the first to arrive, but she's not the last, either. She enters Leblanc to see Sumire, Yusuke and Makoto already there, sitting tense around a booth -- Akira is working silently behind the counter, and Ann realises after a second glance that Akechi is sitting at the far end of it, both of them stiff and stilted and studiously not looking at each other.

The tension in the air registers, and, awkwardly, hovering between what to do, Ann gingerly slides into the booth her friends are gathered at next to Makoto, and sends them all a questioning look.

"What's up with that?" She whispers. They all shrug.

"I'd say it was just Akechi being Akechi, but..." Makoto trails off. "This is how _we_ react to Akechi being Akechi. Akira...he just..."

"Senpai just lets Akechi-san's attitude roll off of him like water on a duck's back," Sumire says. "And I know I haven't really known him as long as you all have, but I know that this isn't normal behaviour for Akechi-san, either --"

"Yoshizawa." Akechi's voice, clear and like ice, cuts through Sumire's words. He doesn't turn to them, but they all freeze anyway -- Ann can't blame them. Since dropping his sweet and pleasant Detective Prince act, Akechi's voice had changed. She isn't sure how she never noticed that he'd pitched his voice up, but now that he speaks without the facade, deep in tone and crass with his words, it's hard to believe that she'd ever fallen for it. "First in the Palace, now here. I thought you would have learned by now that I can _hear you when you're talking about me."_

Sumire winces. "Sorry, Akechi-san," she says. "I was just --"

He waves her off. "I don't care. Psychoanalyse _him_ all you want, but leave me out of your bullshit."

Porcelain slams to the counter. Akira looks at Akechi for the first time since Ann had walked into Leblanc -- looks up for the first time since she'd entered, actually, and Ann sucks in a breath through her teeth when she registers the swollen, red eyes. He's been crying. A lot.

Right now, though, he's glaring.

“Concern for you," he spits out, "is _not_ bullshit."

Ann's expecting hissing and snarling. She's expecting sarcasm and a snarl. She's expecting words as caustic as acid.

She isn't expecting Akechi to look away first, to deflate, to soften.

"Yes," he says quietly, and this is the closest she's heard him be to the Detective Prince in weeks, "it is, Akira, and you know it."

They sit in silence while they wait for the rest of the Thieves to show up. It is not a companionable silence.

That’s pretty obvious to the others, too, the moment they walk through the door. Ryuji’s face says _wow, who died?_ Ann can only be grateful he doesn’t actually ask that out loud, though he _does_ shoot her a questioning look. She can only shrug in answer -- it’s not like _she_ has any idea what’s going on!

Futaba is the last of them to arrive, which seems funny to Ann, since she’d been the one to send a message requesting their presence in the first place, even if said request had apparently originally come from Akira. She seems down, the most melancholy she’s been since that first day they’d truly woken up as themselves in Maruki’s dreamlike reality, and Morgana, cradled in her arms, seems to not be feeling like his usual self, either. He doesn’t seem excited to see her at all -- doesn’t immediately jump from Futaba’s arms to scamper over to the booth, or call out _Lady Ann!_ at all.

Ice settles low in her stomach, creeping up her spine, like getting brushed by one of Yusuke’s attacks in fights where they’re shoved too close. She has a _bad_ feeling about this.

Makoto apparently does, too, because her eyes, narrowed, flick from Akira to Morgana to Futaba to Goro, then back to rest on Akira.

“What,” she says, “is going on here, exactly?”

Futaba sniffles, a little, as she slides onto one of the stools by the counter, and Ann’s concern is only mounting, higher and higher. 

“Mona told you, huh?” Akira murmurs, ignoring Makoto’s pointed question and equally pointed glare, which only sharpens when he doesn’t answer her question.

“Nah,” Futaba whispers back, voice rough. “I have this entire floor bugged, remember? I knew what was up way before Mona came scratching at my door."

Akira blinks. “Ah -- right,” he says. “Right.”

Akechi snorts, and Akira’s shoulders hunch up once more, nearly up to his ears. “And you’re _crying_ over it?” He spits out, venom in every wild syllable. “Of all people, I thought you’d be _happy_ to know about this, Oracle.”

Futaba looks at Akechi like he’s an idiot, which isn’t a new look on her, but there is something sorrowful and soft behind it, and that _is._ “I’m not you,” she says. “I don’t deal with people I don’t like by wishing them dead. It doesn’t fix anything! Argh, it’s such a lame trope! I can’t believe Maruki has dropped us _right_ into a story with the writing quality of one of Featherman’s worst seasons!”

Akechi cracks a grin at that. He lifts up his half-empty coffee mug in a toast, and inclines his head towards Futaba. “All the more reason to retcon this nonsense,” he says firmly, and Ann is so lost when they bring out the nerd speak like this, but one word _does_ stick out --

“Death?” Sumire squeaks out, eyes widening. _“Death?”_

Akechi, Akira and Futaba all exchange a weighted glance. “It’s your call, Akechi,” Akira finally says, weirdly gentle for how angry he’d been at him only five minutes earlier.

Akechi’s laughter is bitter and disbelieving. “Sure it is,” he says, his tone rich with something that Ann would call good natured humour if it had come from anyone else. From Akechi, it’s poison coating his words, and Akira flinches as each carefully sharpened verbal knife hits home.

“Maruki was here earlier,” Akechi says, addressing the room, but keeping his eyes on Akira only. “We delivered the calling card to him. That’s it.”

“No, it isn’t.” Ann’s speaking out before she’s even registered the words that follow Akechi’s belong to her. She blinks as everyone turns to look at her, including Akechi, and shrinks back for a second before clearing her throat and continuing on, “if that was it, none of you would be acting like this.”

“Like what, Takamaki,” Akechi says, flat and challenging. 

“Dude,” Ryuji says. “Like, I don’t know, we’re attending a funeral? Seriously, who the hell died?”

Futaba winces. Akira winces. _Morgana_ winces.

Akechi smiles, bright and guileless and never reaching his eyes. “Why, I did!” He says. “Or did you forget leaving me behind on Shido’s ship?”

What follows his words can only be described as an uproar -- “you _told_ us to leave you behind! You shot the door shut yourself!” from Futaba at the same time that Yusuke mournfully says “oh, Akechi-kun,” all buried under Ryuji’s “what the _hell,_ man!”

“Are you for real?” He demands, and when Akechi simply shrugs one shoulder, sipping at his coffee with satisfaction radiating from the smile he can’t quite hide behind the mug, Ryuji turns to Akira with a scowl. “Is he for real, Akira?”

“...Yes,” Akira says, low, pained, reluctant. “He’s for real.”

If an uproar followed Akechi’s words, a hush falls after Akira’s.

“I don’t understand,” Sumire says, helplessly, and Ann doesn’t even know where to _begin_ to explain this all to her.

Thankfully -- maybe? -- she doesn’t have to, because Akechi turns to her, that bright, awful smile still on his face. “It’s very simple, Yoshizawa-san,” he says, light and airy, voice pitched up with the paint of the Detective Prince. “I died several months back, now. And when Maruki decided to give everyone a happy little dream, of course _dear_ Akira was included among that number, no?”

“But you’re you,” Makoto protests. “Everyone else -- we were all wrapped up in the dream. But you and Akira...you’re _you.”_

“Maybe Akira just likes me like this,” Akechi says. “The fact that he’s friends with all of you should on its own be enough to confirm to you all that he has shit taste.”

“I think that’s it, too,” Akira says. “Uh -- not the uh, the shit taste thing. I have _great_ taste, thanks.” Akechi snorts. “No, I mean. I wouldn’t have wanted the Detective Prince, or some false, clueless Akechi. I just...wanted him back. Real. Alive. A possibility.”

“Well, I’m approximately none of those things, so get over it,” Akechi says, voice flat. _“Fast.”_ He looks over to the rest of them and says “I didn’t want to tell any of you about this, but honestly, with how he’s acting, I’m concerned about him heading off to take Maruki’s offer if you idiots don’t all sit on him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Akechi-san,” Haru says easily. “Of course Akira will not be taking Maruki’s offer. He would never betray us all like that for your sake, after all. Not after we broke out of our haze in this reality and woke up to the truth of things.” A pretty smile, laughter hidden behind delicately manicured nails as her eyes crinkle shut, sliding open just a sliver to reveal hard amber _threat._ “We’ve all sacrificed so much to stand here, choosing to fight. Akira would _never_ throw that away by choosing _you_ over us.”

 _“Yikes,”_ Ryuji breathes, and yeah, Ann’s with him on this. Holy _shit,_ Haru.

Akechi’s smile is brittle, filled with the subtle unease he’s never quite seemed to able to hide when it comes to Futaba and Haru, but before he can spit out any sort of scathing response, their attention is drawn to Akira, who had flinched at Haru’s words -- flinched right back into the shelves behind Leblanc’s counter that hold the crockery. One mug falls to the ground, nudged off the shelf by his elbow, and shatters against the floor.

Soft guilt crosses Haru’s face. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Akira-kun, I didn’t mean --”

“It doesn’t matter what you meant,” Akechi cuts in. “You weren’t _wrong._ You’re the only person in this room who’s had anything smart to say this entire night, Okumura-san.”

Haru looks like she isn’t quite sure of how to take that from Akechi -- if it’s an insult, she’s insulted; if he’s sincere, because it’s Akechi, she’s _still insulted_ \-- so she completely ignores him, turning her attention fully back on to Akira.

“Akira-kun,” she says gently. “I shouldn’t have said those things. I know you care for Akechi-san. I should have thought about how those words would have hurt you.”

“Oh, that’s not what’s got him flinching,” Akechi murmurs. Haru’s smile twitches, freezing at the corners for just a second. “There’s a part of him that was hoping you’d all just vote to stay here now, knowing I’ll finally, _truly_ be gone if we defeat Maruki, but he didn’t want to just come out and say it, because then he feels like he’d be manipulating you all into saying what he wants, _after_ he’d spent all that time and energy manipulating you out of your happy dreams.” He smiles at Futaba. “How does that sound, Sakura-san? Staying trapped in this false reality, only now you won’t have your mother as a consolation prize. Just me!”

Futaba scowls. “Shut up, Akechi,” she snaps. “Just -- just, for once in your life, shut up, okay? Stop trying to be an awful person.”

“It’s cute that you think I have to try.”

“Dude,” Ryuji says. “I’m with her. Shut up.”

Akechi scoffs, but doesn’t try for a retort. Maybe he can read the room, and doesn’t want to deal with the escalation that will surely follow. Maybe he just doesn’t want to actually acknowledge Ryuji. Either way, a lull comes upon them after that, silent and heavy, and Ann is grateful for the moment to gather her thoughts and compose herself, even as it only grows heavier and heavier with each passing second.

She tries to subtly wipe her eyes. She isn’t crying, not really, not yet, but her eyes are _definitely_ watery.

It’s just so unfair.

“So, like,” Ryuji begins, breaking the silence, looking deeply uncomfortable, “once we kick Maruki’s ass, you’ll, uh…”

“Die,” Akechi says bluntly. “Again.”

“Sucks,” Ryuji says.

Akechi hums noncommittally. “If you say so.”

“I -- I don’t really understand what’s going on,” Sumire says, sending them all an apologetic look as they turn to her. “I’m sorry. But, um -- if I’m understanding things right, tonight is going to, ah, be Akechi-san’s last night on earth, yes?”

“Not like that’s anything special,” Akechi mumbles. “If we lose to Maruki, it’ll be _everyone’s_ last night on earth, in a certain sense.”

“We’re not going to lose,” Akira says, and the pain in his voice as he says it is as clear as his firm, burning determination. “Stop being such a downer, Goro.”

Akechi makes a strangled, offended sound. “Excuse you? _Goro?”_

Akira shrugs, and grins, and looks like himself for the first time that night. “Last night on earth,” he reminds him, in an almost passable facsimile of cheer. “May as well do away with the formalities, right?”

Akechi -- _Goro,_ Ann thinks, testing it out in her mind -- stares at him open-mouthed for a minute before shaking his head and sighing. “Whatever,” he says. “I really don’t give a shit.”

Ann takes that to mean he gives many shits. Through his hair, his ears look bright red to her, so she figures she’s right on that front.

“Goro-senpai,” Sumire says thoughtfully, as if testing the name herself -- just out loud, instead of safely silent. She’s got a hell of a lot more guts than Ann does, that’s for sure. “So, um, Morgana-senpai was telling me stories all about the Phantom Thieves! And he mentioned how you always threw a welcoming party for your new members, and, um, I know this might sound presumptuous, but...we could throw one for me? And um, Goro-senpai, too? Did you ever organise one for him?”

“We didn’t,” Makoto says. _Because he was planning to kill us all_ goes unsaid. Ann wonders if Sumire has picked up enough context to figure that out on her own, or if it’s just a habit of hers to go barrelling right past awkward silences and elongated pauses like they don’t exist.

“Well, then maybe we could do something tonight? As a goo -- as a group!” Sumire stumbles over what is clearly _goodbye,_ but none of them call her out on it. Not even Goro, staring at her from where he sits by the counter like she’s the most disgusting thing he’s ever seen.

“I like it,” Akira says. “Yes, we -- we should do that, absolutely.”

“A revelry before the end,” Yusuke muses. “How fitting.”

Now Goro is looking at them _all_ like they’re crazy. “You want to party,” he says flatly, “the night before the hardest fight of our lives? The fight that will literally decide the fate of the world.”

They all exchange glances, and share a collective shrug. “...yeah?” Futaba says.

“Oh, whatever,” Goro says. “But if this leads to us losing tomorrow, please remember that this ‘goodbye’ will have been for nothing, because I’ll still be around to tell you _I told you so.”_

“Sure thing, mood killer,” Akira says, phone in hand. “Crossroads is open. Lala will be happy to take us in for the night.”

A cheer goes up around Leblanc, and for a moment, it’s easy to forget the spectre of death that hangs over them. Not just Goro, but the entire world.

 _That’s for tomorrow,_ Ann tells herself. _Tonight is for_ this -- !

As they exit Leblanc, shuffling out into the streets of Yongen-Jaya, trying to be quiet and failing miserably, Ann lets herself fall to the back of the group, where Goro lingers.

He shoots her a sardonic look. “Making sure I don’t run?”

“Nah,” she says easily. “Just keeping you company.” She offers her arm. “No one should spend their last hours cold and alone.”

The look he gives her then, she can’t read. He takes her arm in his own, though, so she _thinks_ it’s nothing bad?

He doesn’t look happy, though. More _defeated._

Ann’s never really given much thought to the phrase _dead man walking_ before, except for those last few horrible weeks of Kamoshida, imagining setting Carmen loose on him and just letting her _burn_ until only bone remained -- but looking at Goro Akechi in that moment, feeling him by her side, thin and tired and radiating the kind of pulsing warmth that only came from being _alive,_ she finally understood the real tragedy of it.

“This is unfair,” she mumbles, and Goro laughs.

“Welcome to my life,” he says, bitter and brittle. He eyes her while still keeping his face turned forwards. “I have to say, Takamaki, I wasn’t expecting _you_ to get so…” he trails off, taking in the absolute disaster her hair must be, the red and swollen eyes she can feel are still leaking tears. “...distraught,” he finally settles on.

“Really?” She sniffles, a little, and resists the urge to wipe her nose on her sleeve. “Why?”

“Well, I _am_ a murderer,” Goro muses. “I killed Sakura’s mother, and Okumura’s father, and innumerable others, and I _would_ have killed Akira, too, if the lot of you weren’t fuelled by absolute bullshit logic that _somehow_ works for you.”

“Sure,” Ann agrees. “You forgot the most important one, though.”

He raises a brow at her. “And that would be?”

“You’re my friend, silly.”

His face goes blank, and his body goes stiff. He pulls his arm out of hers immediately, and looks away from her. _“You,”_ he hisses, full of venom and hatred and wounds torn open by broken glass, “are such a _stupid_ piece of shi--”

"You _know,”_ Ann interrupts, “I think I've finally figured it out! Why it is you're such a massive bitch to me, I mean."

Goro blinks, and for a brief second, looks offended. The offense is gone as quickly as it came, though, covered up by a sneer and angry eyes, the red flecks that signify Loki briefly flickering to life, and Ann tells herself not to grin at catching a glimpse of the humanity that lies buried at Akechi's core, under the berserk rage of the Black Mask, under the perfect porcelain of the Detective Prince. "Because you're a vapid little girl whose only real use is helping the team's overall elemental coverage?" His voice matches his expression, the cool, pretty sarcasm barely hiding the ugly snarl that is his mother tongue.

"Nah," Ann says, breezy. "It's because I terrify you."

Goro goes still. His eyes go wide and wild, that red flaring brighter like an oncoming eclipse, and Ann has spent this entire conversation knowing she's talking to someone whose response to vulnerability being applied to him in any way is overkill with extreme prejudice. She's ready to run, if she has to.

She doesn't think she has to, though, because it only takes Goro a second to recollect himself, and then he's laughing in her face. _"You?_ Terrify _me?"_

She can see why he finds that laughable.

Doesn't mean she's _wrong,_ though.

"Sure," she says. "You can rationalize Akira being nice to you, and wanting you around, because you've got that whole 'destined rivals' thing going on. He makes sense, in your crazy little brain. You can rationalize Ryuji, because you think he's an idiot. Yusuke? You think he's so disconnected from reality he's disconnected from morality, as well, because you think his quirks are apathy. Makoto, Haru, Futaba? They all hate you, right? Want to keep an eye on you. Why not be nice to you in the meantime? Just to spite you. To show you they're better people than you are."

She shrugs. "And then there's me. The vapid little girl too blonde to realise the guy she’s offering her arm to is a killer." 

She smiles. Goro takes a step back. Somewhere deep inside, it's satisfying. Celestine purrs. _Got him._

"Of course," she continues, "you and I both know you're wrong about all of that. You're wrong about most things, Akechi. Even if you hate admitting it. You just don't like the idea that we're being kind to you because at the end of the day, past all the bullshit and the bloodshed, we _like_ you. And you don't want to admit that you like us being kind to you, because you're oh so convinced that wanting other people in any way at all is a weakness. So _yeah,_ you're terrified of us. And right now, you're terrified of _me,_ specifically."

Goro eyes her warily. "And why do you say that?"

"Because when we learned the truth about what's going to happen to you after we beat Maruki, everyone else accepted it. Sure, they got angry, they got sad, but in the end...they accepted it. And I didn’t speak up throughout the entire conversation because I was too busy trying not to cry." She leans in close. "I'm right, aren't I? Someone feeling enough for you to cry at the reality your death...terrifying, right? That someone could love you that much?"

Goro doesn't meet her eyes. "You don't love me," he says.

"No," Ann agrees easily. "But I could have, given enough time. And I think your death is bullshit. I want you to live."

"Well, sucks to be you, but you're shit out of luck," he says. Sighs, really. "I've been dead for weeks. We're just...setting things right."

"Nothing about this," Ann says softly, "is right."

“No,” Goro agrees. “Which is the only reason why I’m still here. You idiots can spout heroism and altruism all you want. I just want to kick Maruki’s teeth in for playing god like this.”

She takes his hand in her own, and squeezes tight. “You’re valid,” she says firmly. “I wouldn’t mind kicking his teeth in myself, actually.”

Goro eyes her doubtfully. “Really?” He says. _“You?”_

Ann nods, firm. “I nearly killed Kamoshida, you know,” she says conversationally. “I only didn’t because I wanted him to suffer for longer than the few minutes it would have taken to roast his Shadow alive. I wanted the guilt of what he’d done to finally soak into the marrow of his bones. I wanted him to be haunted by it forever. I didn’t want to make him _my_ ghost -- I wanted to make Shiho _his._ ” She looks over at Goro, eyes hard. “Maruki erased all of those hardships,” she says. “I can’t say the idea of a world where we never went through any of that _bullshit_ isn’t appealing, because it would be a lie, but that he would just erase it without consent? After everything I’d worked for? Everything _Shiho_ had worked for?” She shakes her head. “Just another thing to be angry about, when it comes to this false paradise.” She sighs.

“An interesting perspective,” Goro finally says, before raising his volume and calling out to Akira: “are you _really_ going to make us _walk_ all the way to Shinjuku?”

“It’s not that far!”

“But it _is_ that cold!”

“Point,” Akira allows, humming thoughtfully. He slows to a stop, and the rest of them mill around -- now that they’re not walking, Ann can _really_ feel the chill set into her bones. She steps away from Goro to run for Ryuji, shoving up against his side to steal his body heat; she would have done it with Goro, but she’s like ninety percent sure he would have just thrown her to the ground if she’d dared, which would have done nothing but made her colder in the end.

“Akira-kun?” Makoto asks, after a half-minute of standing and shivering in silence. “What is it, exactly, that you’re doing?”

“Texting Maruki,” he says. It takes a moment for the words to register.

 _“Dude,”_ Ryuji says, and Ann can only hear it over Sumire’s squeaked out _Senpai!?_ And Goro’s ice shattering _what_ because she’s standing right next to him.

“Texting Maruki,” Akira repeats, and flips his phone around, holding it out for them all to get a look at. They all lean forward. Ann squints at the screen.

> **AK:** hey, maruki-sensei  
>  **TM:** Kurusu-kun! How wonderful to hear from you.  
>  **TM:** Am I hoping too much to assume this is you taking my offer?  
>  **AK:** sorry, sensei  
>  **AK:** ur ass kicking is very much still scheduled for tomorrow  
>  **TM:** I see.  
>  **TM:** In that case, may I inquire as to your reason for reaching out to me? I assume this isn’t you being social.  
>  **AK:** we’re gonna party like it’s the end of the world  
>  **AK:** u know, cos it kinda is?  
>  **AK:** at least one of us will be dying tomorrow for sure!! love that for us sensei!!  
>  **TM:** Kurusu-kun…  
>  **AK:** save it  
>  **AK:** just fix the weather for us  
>  **TM:** I -- I beg your pardon, Kurusu-kun?  
>  **AK:** weather’s shit  
>  **AK:** fix it pls sensei  
>  **TM:** You wish for me to...manipulate the weather?  
>  **AK:** one nice summer’s evening coming up pls  
>  **TM:** It’s winter, Kurusu-kun.  
>  **AK:** and ur basically god  
>  **AK:** and tmrw i’m gonna kick ur ass knowing the whole time  
>  **AK:** the boy i like is gonna be dead at the end of it  
>  **AK:** Please Fix The Weather Sensei  
>  **TM:** ...As you wish.  
>  **TM:** Please, have a good night, Kurusu-kun. I will see you tomorrow.  
>  **AK:** it’s a date!

Ann blinks, and looks around the group, and is glad to know she isn’t the only one of them that looks dumbfounded.

“Are you stupid?” Goro says, wonderingly, which doesn’t match the venom in his eyes at all.

“Sure,” Akira says. “Like, eighty-percent of the time, at least.”

While they bicker at each other, Ann can’t help but turn those messages over in her mind -- _the boy I like,_ Akira had written, and while it comes as literally no surprise, she’s _seen_ how Akira watches Goro when he thinks no one is watching, it still stings a little, all over again, because these are her friends, and this is them getting hurt, no matter what they do. No matter what she does.

She’s musing on this when she feels it start to grow warm -- unseasonably so; uncomfortably so, considering the thick winter clothing she’s rugged up in.

“Holy _shit,”_ Ryuji whispers, already shrugging his own jacket off to tie about his waist.

“See?” Akira says. “Perfect night to walk to Shinjuku.”

“I hate you,” Goro says, each syllable clipped. He stalks ahead of them as Akira cackles.

It doesn’t take long for them to reach Crossroads, and while Ann would normally be worried about walking straight into a bar in the middle of Shinjuku, Akira strolls in like he owns the place, and indeed, the bartender -- Lala-chan, Ann thinks she hears Akira call her? -- beams at him and welcomes him warmly.

“You kids are sure out late, honey,” Lala-chan says, eyeing them all with a glint in her eyes that Ann almost wants to call wariness before she realises that it’s _concern._ What a weird concept to apply to an adult that doesn’t know any of them at all. “What’s got you all wandering through Shinjuku this late?”

“Got an apocalypse scheduled for tomorrow,” Akira says, completely serious. “You don’t need to worry about it -- we’ve totally got it under control -- but we’re going to party like we don’t.”

Lala-chan raises one pointed brow. Akira flushes bright red, right up to the tips of his ears.

“Are you, now?” She asks. “Well, feel free to hang in here if you want to grab a table, but I won’t be serving you any alcohol, no matter if the world ends in the next five _minutes.”_

Akira nods like he was expecting this. “Thanks, Lala-chan,” he says. “Don’t worry, you’re just our stop number one!”

“Oh, _joy,”_ Goro mutters under his breath. Ann moves to throw an elbow into his side, and snickers when she isn’t the only one to do so.

“Play _nice,_ Akechi-kun,” Makoto whispers, through gritted teeth she’s trying to pass as a smile. 

“I’m not the one being violent,” Goro says pleasantly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Haru muses, equally as pleasant. “I certainly feel assaulted by your voice, Akechi-kun!”

Goro snorts, looking amused, and then looks horrified at himself. Ann cracks up.

“Glad you’re all having fun,” Akira says, walking back over to them from where he’d been leaning up against the bar, a tray of empty glasses balanced in his arms. His gaze, when it falls upon Haru and Akechi, is impossibly warm, and unbearably sorrowful. “There’s a table back there that’s out of the way, but we’ll still be able to see the doors from it,” he says, indicating to it with a jab of his chin, and Ann is quick to skip over to it, dragging Ryuji with her.

“You don’t need to hang off of me, you know,” he complains as she shoves him into the long, cushioned seat first.

“Maybe I just like hanging off of you, you ever think of that?” Ann counters, and is rewarded with Ryuji looking utterly baffled for a glorious few seconds. She’s almost looking forward to whatever it is he’ll say next, but before he gets a chance to gather his thoughts into a coherent response, the rest of the group has made their way over, and are trying to shuffle into something resembling order around the table.

They quickly run into trouble: there’s just too many of them, and not enough table or bench. Ann’s about to suggest asking Lala-chan if they can borrow a barstool or two, when Haru says: “oh! Mako-chan, you can sit on my lap!” As if worried Makoto didn’t understand her words within the two seconds since she’d said them, Haru pats at her thighs.

Makoto isn’t just red -- she’s a deep shade of crimson Ann wasn’t aware humans could become, but she moves to sit gingerly on one of Haru’s knees without complaint. It clearly isn’t very comfortable, so it comes as no surprise to Ann when Haru wraps an arm around Makoto’s middle and tugs her back into a proper embrace with a giggle. “Mako-chan,” she says, light and teasing, and Ann steps on Ryuji’s foot before he can get a word out.

The offended look he shoots her is funny, but not nearly as funny as Goro Akechi, still standing over them, arms crossed over his chest, sneering down at the spectacle and hissing out _“disgusting.”_

Ann bites her lip. She isn’t going to laugh. She is _not_ going to laugh.

“Aw, come on, sweetheart,” Akira says. “You’re going to hurt my feelings, talking like that, considering you’re going to have to sit on _my_ lap.”

The look on Goro’s face says _I’d rather die,_ or perhaps _I’d rather try to kill you again,_ and Ann is finding it really, _really_ hard not to laugh.

It occurs to her that maybe she should not be struggling so hard to not laugh at things that are really not that funny, that aren’t funny at _all,_ but she knows from experience that it’s laugh, cry, or scream, and while she’d definitely rather be screaming right now, that’s not super appropriate to be doing in public, or with company at all -- and she absolutely _refuses_ to cry for as long as she can possibly hold the tears back. 

_Happy memories, Ann,_ she tells herself. _Make_ happy _memories._

“...besides,” Akira is telling Goro, “if it’s not _my_ lap, it’s Ann’s, Yusuke’s, or Ryuji’s, so --”

The speed with which Goro seats himself on Akira’s lap shouldn’t be possible outside of the metaverse, and a snort slips out before Ann can catch herself. He glares at her, but she doesn’t let herself be intimidated. She wonders if he’d ever even considered going over to the bar and grabbing a stool, or if he’d simply heard the challenge in Akira’s voice and lost all sense of rational thought. _Boys,_ really.

 _“Hey,”_ Futaba says, all ruffled feathers with Morgana complaining in her lap about being squashed when she leans over the table to glare at Akira. “Why wasn’t I on that list? You think I’m too puny to have someone sit on my lap? Is that it?”

The look Akira sends back her way is dry enough to light kindling. “You have Morgana on your lap,” he points out, “and besides, you weren’t the only person I didn’t list. I didn’t mention Sumire, either.”

“You -- oh.” Futaba blinks, and then frowns, looking to the side as if she’d somehow forgotten Sumire was by her side. “You didn’t,” she says. “Why? She’s buff. She’s probably one of the buffest people here. She could do it.”

Sumire turns bright red, and is immediately looking anywhere that isn’t Futaba’s general vicinity.

 _“Futaba-chan,”_ Haru whispers. _“You’re making Sumire-chan blush.”_

 _Futaba-chan,_ Ann hears, _that’s pretty gay._

“She’s very buff,” Akira agrees, looking like he’s trying to hold back from laughing as much as Ann had been only a moment ago. “She’s also the coolest person at this table, and I’m pretty sure Goro likes her more than he likes me, so I have to keep them separated.”

“I like everyone more than you,” Goro says, which sounds _super_ true when he’s perched on Akira’s lap.

“Even Ryuji?”

“I like most people more than you,” Goro corrects, at the same time Ryuji yelps out an offended _hey!_ and then they’re all laughing, and for a brief moment it’s easy to forget -- forget everything they’ve been through, everything and everything they’ve lost, everything that’s been taken from them, every grievance and battle exchanged between them. It’s easy to forget that tomorrow, it’s all or nothing, and it’s all on them.

For a moment, it’s easy to forget they’re anything more than normal teenagers -- a group of friends, just hanging out for an evening.

Ann shakes off her melancholy. “So, Akira,” she says, and leans forwards, resting her elbows on the table and her chin on her hands, clasped together. “You said Crossroads was just the first stop? What’s the plan, then?”

“I thought we’d start off here,” he says. “Get into the vibe, you know? And then…” He hesitates, and then looks up at Goro. “Jazz?” He asks, tentative.

A long moment of silence. “Jazz would be nice,” Goro finally says, quiet, like this is an admission Akira has dragged out of him, one he wants no one else to hear.

“I like jazz!” Ann says, which is not a lie, but is not the truth either, because she actually has no real strong feelings regarding jazz at all. Still, it draws eyes away from Akira and Goro, and sparks up a conversation, so she gives herself a mental high-five. She did good.

Yusuke is talking about the interplay of visual art and music -- which is honestly a fascinating topic even if Ann is only really following about half of what he’s saying with any real comprehension -- when Lala calls Akira up to the bar. He shoves Goro off of his lap, and then drags him up to the bar with him, and they come back with a tray laden with food, and a jug of something icy and pink. While Goro places the food tray down, looking rather disgruntled, Akira busies himself pouring them all drinks into the glasses he’d brought to the table earlier.

Ann takes a sip of hers when he slides it to her. It tastes sweet, and pink. Not fruity -- just pink. She likes it. “What is it?” she asks, fiddling with the little paper umbrella Akira had stabbed into the top of her glass with a grin.

“Virgin something cocktail,” Akira says. “I keep asking Lala-chan to teach me the tricks of the trade, but she still won’t let me touch the alcohol at all, so I don’t get to know her ‘special recipes.’” He takes a sip of his own drink, and blinks. “Huh. Tastes pink.”

“I like it,” Sumire says, holding her glass in both her hands, turning it round in circles and taking the occasional delicate sip. “I don’t know what I was expecting out of a bar in Shinjuku, but...this wasn’t it? It’s nice here. Homey.” She pauses, and continues on, quieter: “I think this is a place Kasumi would have liked to come to. She would have enjoyed the atmosphere.”

For a moment, silence falls. They all know what Kasumi means to Sumire -- this is one of the first bits of casual knowledge she’s offered up about her sister. It doesn’t feel like something they should just be brushing past, out of respect, at the very least, but Sumire is starting to fidget under all of their gazes, so Ann grabs for something, _anything,_ less awkward than the silence that’s stretching between all of them.

“Shiho,” she blurts out. “Uh -- she would like it here too, I think! Maybe I’ll bring her next time she’s in the city, if Lala-chan wouldn’t mind?” She addresses this last part at Akira, who shrugs.

“Crossroads caters more to Shinjuku nightlife than anything, but she’s got a regular menu for food and non-alcoholic drinks,” he says. “If you’re paying, I don’t think Lala-chan would mind your company in her bar.”

“Sweet,” Ann says, and grins.

“Sis would like it here too, I think,” Makoto says, and then pauses, and looks a little like she’d just swallowed an unexpected piece of lemon floating amidst the ice in her drink. “I...never thought I’d say this about a bar in Shinjuku, but this honestly seems like a more reputable place than some of the other bars I know she goes to for a drink after work sometimes?”

Goro snorts. “This seems like a more reputable place than some of the _restaurants_ she’d take me to after work sometimes,” he says, and holds up the piece of garlic bread he’d been eating, as if in example. “This doesn’t taste or feel like plastic,” he explains to their questioning stares.

Ann wrinkles her nose. “That’s disgusting,” she says. “You really ate like that, Goro?”

He shrugs. “I mean, it was better than trash,” he says. He sounds as if he’s talking from experience. Ann _really_ doesn’t want to know if he’s talking from experience.

“Most things are better to eat than trash,” Yusuke agrees, and Ann wants to scream. “Why, once --”

“Yusuke-kun,” Haru cuts in, soft and mournful. “You never have to resort to such awful things again, okay? I’ll make sure to keep you fed, I promise.”

The brief confusion that had flickered to life on Yusuke’s face fades out for pure, starry-eyed adoration. “Haru,” he says, voice thick with emotion.

“Fucking _Christ,”_ Goro breathes out, and jumps with a yelp when Akira pinches his side.

“Play _nice,”_ he teases. Goro rolls his eyes.

“This is _my_ ‘welcoming party,’” he reminds Akira, voice tart. “My goodbye party, too. Shouldn’t I get to decide how much of a bitch I get to be at my own big send off?”

“Sure,” Akira says. “But not to Yusuke.”

Goro looks thoughtful. “Yeah, okay, that’s fair actually,” he says. “Kitagawa _is_ the most tolerable of all of you, to be quite honest.”

“I’m honoured you think so highly of me, Akechi-kun,” Yusuke says, looking like he means it, very sincerely. Goro looks like he doesn’t know what to do with that -- which is, honestly, pretty par for the course for anyone confronted with Yusuke for any significant stretch of time. Ann loves their weird artist buddy so much.

After that, conversation turns a little quieter as they all work on finishing up the food Lala-chan had made for them, seemingly free of charge -- toasty, rich garlic bread and piles of fries; pretty typical bar food, to Ann’s knowledge, but it tastes _great._ She could just be hungry, sure but she’s pretty sure that’s not it.

 _“Ugh,”_ she says, and flops back against the back of the bench, Ryuji warm against her side. “I’m stuffed.”

“Dude,” Ryuji mumbles, which Ann translates as _mood._

Akira’s foot nudges hers under the table. “Don’t die,” he says, when she looks up to ask him _what?_ with her glare. “We still have more stops on this end-of-the-world-party-parade!”

“Shut up,” Goro says succinctly, when the rest of the table groans. “It’s getting late, Akira. We should all just go home. Get some _rest_ \-- unless you’re _planning_ for us to all be so exhausted tomorrow that Maruki triumphs over us?”

Ice shoots through Ann’s veins, and suddenly she’s wide awake and not overstuffed at all. Of course she doesn’t believe Akira’s actually planning what Goro just accused him of -- she doesn’t think her friend would be capable of such a thing even _subconsciously;_ if he was going to take Maruki’s deal, he would just straight up tell them _I’m taking Maruki’s deal --_ but she _does_ believe the terrible, aching threat that trembles behind each rage filled syllable Goro spits out.

“I just want as much time with you as I have left,” Akira says softly, and Ann looks down at the table and tries _desperately_ to be anywhere but there, because as much as Goro’s radiating anger has her twitching and wanting a weapon in her hand, she doesn’t _actually_ think he’d really do anything to hurt Akira at this point, and this really, really doesn’t sound like something she should be hearing. “Is that so wrong, Goro?”

“I hate you,” Goro says, but there’s no bite in it. He just sounds tired.

“...jazz?” Akira asks hopefully, after another long, awkward silence.

Goro sighs. “Jazz,” he agrees, and Ann doesn’t understand him at all, because there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he slides off of Akira’s lap -- apparently, he really is excited for jazz, even after telling Akira they should all be heading home?

Maybe jazz is his crepes. Or his Shiho?

They call out goodbyes and thank-yous to Lala-chan as they head out of Crossroads, into the spontaneous summer the night has become.

“Can we get ice cream before we go...wherever we’re going?” Futaba complains. “It’s warm. I haven’t had ice cream in _forever.”_

“You had ice cream with me just the other day, you little liar,” Akira says. “You were laughing at Morgana because you googled if ice cream was okay for cats to eat, and apparently it wasn’t.”

“That doesn’t count!” Futaba protests. “Ice cream from a tub into a bowl at home isn’t the same as ice cream from a stall onto a cone on the streets.”

“Suddenly warm or not, it’s still winter,” Goro points out. “I highly doubt vendors are out on the streets anywhere selling ice cream.”

It’s a good point, and disappointment crosses Futaba’s face. Akira, at the head of the group, turns to face the rest of them and pulls his phone out of his pocket, waving it in the air. “I could ask Maruki --”

 _“No,”_ they all say in unison, and he jumps.

 _“Geez,_ okay, spoilsports,” he says. “I mean, we’re kicking his ass tomorrow, so really, shouldn’t we be taking advantage of this as much as possible?”

Goro pinches the bridge of his nose, as if to stave off the headache that is Akira Kurusu. From the corner of her eye, Ann spots Makoto settling into an identical pose. She wonders if they both adopted it from Sae. It’s kind of a cute thought, and she vows to never speak it out loud.

“If he could give us teleportation powers, that’d be nice,” Futaba grumbles. “Like, it was bad enough that you made us _walk_ to _Shinjuku,_ Akira. I _really_ don’t want to walk all the way to Kichijoji now, and then _all_ the way home. That’d _suck.”_

“It...doesn’t sound fun,” Makoto agrees, even as she sounds uncertain about doing so.

Futaba whoops. “See? Queen is on my side.”

Ryuji looks at her like she’s crazy. “Yeah, sure, but Maruki ain’t.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Sakamoto is the only one of you making sense right now,” Goro says. “Besides, if you don’t wish to walk to Kichijoji, there’s a far easier way for us to move around.” He pulls out his own phone, and before Ann can ask him just what it is he’s doing, he makes what he’s doing pretty obvious by saying, loud and clear: “Mementos.”

The world _warps._ Futaba yelps as Morgana, now in his Metaverse form and much heavier for it, jumps out of her arms. 

Sumire frowns at Goro. “Akechi-san? Why did you…”

She trails off as Goro gestures around them -- at the now empty streets, and then at Morgana. “You didn’t think Mementos was just the subway, did you?” He asks. “Sure, there aren’t _Shadows_ up here, out of the Depths, but once you’re in the metaverse, you’re _in the metaverse.”_ Once more, he gestures at the empty streets, and sends a _very_ pointed stare Morgana’s way. “We could _drive_ to Kichijoji,” he says.

Akira looks a little like Goro just bludgeoned him over the back of the head, and yeah, Ann can relate to that feeling.

“Are you saying,” Makoto says softly, “we could have been doing this _all year?”_

Goro shrugs. “Sure,” he says easily. “The real issue is that you have no idea if people are going to be around when you exit the metaverse, wherever you exit it at -- so I never used it too much, for fear of stories spreading around of the Detective Prince suddenly just teleporting into large crowds. But, as Akira has stressed all throughout the night, the end of the world -- this one, at least -- is nigh, and so, I’ll put this as succinctly as I can: who gives a shit about who sees us?”

Ryuji grins, and it might literally be the first time Ann has ever seen him direct such an expression Goro’s way, ever. “Hear, hear,” he says. “C’mon, Mona -- car mode activate!”

Morgana sighs, sounding incredibly put-out, but as they all shuffle back to give him room, he transforms without complaint, and they all pile in.

There’s something disorienting about getting into the Monamobile in just her normal clothes -- since they’re still on the streets, and hadn’t actually entered Mementos itself, Ann supposes it makes sense that her clothes haven’t shifted into her thief outfit. There’s nothing up here to consider her a threat, after all.

“This is _so_ much nicer than walking,” Futaba sighs as they pull into Kichijoji. There had been a bit of a kerfuffle before they’d driven off, where Akira had gone for the wheel before Makoto had stared him down and said, no way, no how, was she letting him drive on a real road -- _Mementos is one thing, but this? No, Akira. No._ He’d tried pointing out that they were, technically, in the metaverse, so it didn’t _really_ count as a real road, and all that effort had netted him was a lecture from Makoto as she’d driven them, slow and careful, through the eerily empty streets of Tokyo.

“Morgana drives so much smoother up here than down in Mementos,” Makoto comments once they’re parked in Kichijoji, clambering out one after another so Morgana can shift back. “I suppose that makes sense, though -- it’s not like Mementos is exactly filled with smooth roads.”

“No shadows to ram into, either,” Akira says, and sounds kind of disappointed about it.

“Shame,” Goro agrees, phone in hand. “Am I bringing us back, then?”

“We should get off of the street, then, right?” Sumire summons up a nervous smile when they all look her way. “I mean, I know Akechi-san was talking about how it wouldn’t really matter if anyone saw us suddenly appearing out of nowhere tonight, but maybe we should still just...step into some shadows somewhere, anyway?”

“Oh! That’s a good point, Sumire-chan,” Haru says, a pale pink flush high up on her cheeks. Goro sighs, but makes no complaint as she and Makoto herd them all firmly to the far edge of the street.

The MetaNav beeps, and red reality bleeds away for a more traditional night in shades of blue. The street is pretty empty, honestly -- they probably wouldn’t have had to worry about being seen at all. The jazz place has a door fee, which Ann had honestly forgotten about; she’d only come here once or twice with Akira, and he’d paid for her both times, insisting _I was the one to invite you out, Ann._

This time, it’s _Goro_ that waves her off. “I’ll pay,” he says simply.

Ryuji raises a brow at him. “For all of us? Dude, that can’t be cheap.”

“Well, I’ll go back to being dead after tomorrow, so it’s not like there’s any real point in me trying to hang onto this money.” As they all fall silent, reminded all over again of the horrible, awkward truth that had been dropped on them earlier that night, Goro tilts his head and hums thoughtfully. “Kitagawa, remind me to give you my cards and account details later. Someone may as well get some use out of them.”

“How do you even still have active accounts?” Makoto’s voice is pure curiosity as they all take a seat around a table positioned near the stage; Goro nods to the man behind the bar in greeting as Akira heads over to him -- hopefully to order them all drinks. “With your detainment, shouldn’t they have been locked down?”

Goro shakes his head. “I _really_ wasn’t in custody for all that long, Nijima,” he reminds her. “You can thank Maruki for that -- though, your question isn’t a _bad_ one. I, too, was wondering how I still had open accounts with money in them, considering Shido’s the one who set them up.” He stares down at the wood of the table, eyes tracking along the grain, and something in his smile _twists._ “I suppose I have the change of heart to thank for that? If he felt enough after it to sob about me on live television, it isn’t much of a stretch to think him capable of keeping his mouth shut about a few shady bank accounts.” He sounds absolutely disgusted by the idea.

“All the more reason to blow as much of it as you can tonight,” Akira says easily as his slides into place between Goro and Sumire, tray of drinks balanced perfectly in one hand. This time, instead of one uniform pink liquid, each glass has a unique drink in it, and he hands them each carefully around. Ann’s is a pretty, toxic purple, with sugar crusting the edge of her glass, and a lime wedge cut and placed onto the rim. “Or -- yeah, give them to Yusuke, he’s always in need of more cash.”

“Or better spending sense,” Futaba mutters, and takes a sip of her own drink -- something yellow and cloudy -- before immediately coughing. “Akira!” she exclaims, and turns to look at their leader with wide eyes. “What the _fuck?”_

He frowns at her. “What? Oh -- shoot, did I give you Haru’s drink?”

 _“Noir?”_ Futaba cries out, as Haru yelps and quickly exchanges her glass with Futaba’s; their drinks look the same, as far as Ann can tell, though the one Futaba holds now may be a little clearer than the one she’d originally had -- the one Haru is now sipping from, studiously avoiding their questioning gazes. “Why are you drinking alcohol?”

Ryuji sprays a mouthful of orange juice across the table. “Yo, she’s _what?”_ He narrows his eyes at Akira. “How’d you manage that?”

Akira holds up a shiny black credit card in two fingers, before tossing it to Haru. “I explained that we were expecting a death in the family,” he says. “Chronic illness, you know. That, with a side of Okumura money and Muhen’s fondness for Goro Akechi? Easy sell.” He goes serious, for just a moment. “We are meant to be quiet about this, though.”

Goro is staring at Akira. “You absolutely asked Maruki to allow this, didn’t you?”

Akira yelps, looking deeply offended. “No! Why do you immediately assume the worst of me?”

 _“Phone,”_ Makoto demands, holding out her hand. Akira rolls his eyes but gives it over to her, and after a minute of scrolling through his messages with a frown, she hands it back, grudgingly admitting that it doesn’t look as though he’s had any further contact with Maruki at all.

Still, a slight frown creases Goro’s brow. “Maybe he’s just watching, then,” he says. “Thinking he’s being _helpful.”_

“And on that wonderfully pleasant thought,” Ann interjects, forcing cheer into her voice, “is Noir the only one of us here being a rebel tonight?”

“Uh -- yeah,” Akira says. “I mean, she asked? I wouldn’t give any of you guys alcohol without your permission or a warning, and I wouldn’t give Futaba alcohol at all, no matter how much she begged me. I like living, thanks, and even more than that, I like Sojiro _not_ hating me.”

They all laugh, but Goro is quick to hush them. “I can’t appreciate the music when you’re all being so loud,” he says, eyes fixed on the stage and the singer swaying gently upon it, crooning into the microphone with a voice like whipped butter melting across fresh crepes. Ann’s tempted to laugh at him again, just a little teasing, because of _course_ he’s a jazz nerd, but…

For the first time that night -- for the first time _ever,_ maybe, really, she’s seeing Goro Akechi unwound, that line of tension he carries all down his spine and across his shoulders gone, loosening into something she’d almost call a slump as he relaxes into the music, into the atmosphere of the jazz club.

By his side, Akira shifts, and while Goro’s attention doesn’t so much as flick to him, Ann’s does. He’s got his arms folded atop the table, resting his head on them, tilting his gaze up to just...watch Goro. There’s a soft, happy longing in his eyes, in the slight curl of his lips, but there’s also a hunger there, too -- a desperation, something bitter and sorrowful. Something that knows this is all it will ever get, the last moments they’re going to get.

Ann has to look away. Her hands, in her lap, curl into fists, nails hard against the skin of her palms. She glares down at the table, hard and unblinking, and wills herself to not cry with all the strength of will she’d perfected over weeks of visiting Shiho in hospital with an upbeat smile branded on her face and into her soul.

This is...unfair, she thinks. It’s so, so unfair...but it’s _reality._ And that’s just it, isn’t it? The whole problem with all of this -- you can’t change the past, and you can’t run from reality. You can only keep heading forward, into the future...whatever that might mean for you.

In the meantime, though, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t _hurt._

Ann blinks her vision free of the telltale wetness she hadn’t quite managed to fully suppress, and looks back up at her friends, a smile already on her face. One of Ryuji’s hands finds her own, and grips it tight. She squeezes it back -- for comfort, to let him know she’s alright.

In the back of her mind, she quietly swears to set Maruki on fire perhaps a little more than strictly necessary the next day. He deserves it.

...at the very least, _someone_ deserves some pain over this. Someone who isn’t one of them. Someone she can _blame._

The rest of their evening passes in near silence, a sort of calm settling over the group as they simply settle in to listen to some jazz music. At some point, the singer bows and takes her exit from the stage, and Ann, yawning, is left flabbergasted to realise just how late it’s gotten -- or early, rather, considering they’re brushing up against _midnight._

“Time to call it a night, huh?” Akira murmurs. He looks terrified by the very thought. Ann tugs her hand from Ryuji’s grasp -- geez, have they really been _holding hands_ this entire time? -- and reaches over to take up Akira’s. He looks up at her, helpless, and she doesn’t try to smile for him. She just rubs circles across his skin with her thumbs, trying to give him as much comfort as she can.

“We _do_ still have a fight we need to be in at least passable condition for tomorrow,” Yusuke agrees. “Perhaps putting an end to our festivities here would be for the best?”

“I agree,” Goro says, and before anyone else can say anything else, stands. “Here, Kitagawa -- my cards, and any needed info pertaining to the accounts they’re linked to. With Shido behind bars, there won’t be anymore money going into them, so I’d suggest simply emptying them as soon as possible, lest they _do_ at some point get closed down.” He tosses his wallet and a notebook down on the table, before looking at each of them with a blank expression. “Thank you, for this evening,” he says, and bows.

And then he’s gone.

Akira’s head slams into the table. “I hate this,” he says, muffled.

Sumire reaches out to pat him on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, senpai,” she says.

Akira sighs. “Yeah,” he says, and shoves himself back upright. “Me, too.” His voice is quiet but heavy, leaden with grief.

Makoto sighs. “Well, then,” she says. “We should all be heading home. Morgana, do you mind?”

Morgana, by their feet, groans. _“No,”_ he says, but doesn’t sound like he means it. 

A faint smile plays across Makoto’s face as she leans down to scoop him up. “Come on, guys,” she says, phone in hand, thumb already hovering over the MetaNav -- clearly ready to open it the moment they’re outside of the club. “Let’s go.”

With minimal grumbling, the atmosphere of the club and the mood of the night infecting all of them, the group pushes away from the table and heads outside. Ann notices Akira lagging behind, and pauses, to fall into step beside him.

“Akira?” she asks gently, and he looks up at her, all his cheerful facades fallen away, his eyes as red and raw as they had been at the start of the night, back when they’d all just been at Leblanc. She hesitates, and then digs for the courage to say: “call him.”

Akira blinks at her, and she nudges him in the side with her elbow. _“Call him,”_ she stresses, thinking of Shiho and a jump that could have ended in something far more tragic than what they got, thinking of the nightmares she still wakes up from, screaming. “You’ll regret it if you don’t, Akira. I’ll cover for you with Queen.”

He offers her a weak smile. “Thanks, Ann,” he says quietly. “You’re a good friend.”

“The best!” she agrees. “Now -- hurry up! You should get a chance to say a proper goodbye, just the two of you. And…” she pauses, but forges on. “And if it were me,” she says, “I know I wouldn’t _really_ want to spend my last night on earth alone.” She pulls Akira in close, and hugs him tight. “Bring him home, okay?”

Akira’s arms come up around her, to return her embrace. “I will,” he swears, before pulling back. “See you tomorrow?”

She flings up two fingers in a victory sign, and smiles her brightest smile of the night. “See you tomorrow!”

Makoto frowns at her when she exits the jazz club alone. “Where’s Akira?”

“He’s got other plans,” Ann says. “It’s okay. He’s making his way home.”

Makoto’s frown deepens, but she doesn’t question Ann -- simply activates the MetaNav, and sighs as the sky above them bleeds to red, and they all shift into metaspace. “We’ll drop Sumire off first,” she says, which none of them argue with. The drive is quiet, but with Goro and Akira gone, the air is a little lighter than it had been on their earlier trip. Ann shifts her weight onto Ryuji and tells herself she’s not going to fall asleep and drool on his shoulder.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket. With a sigh hissed through gritted teeth, Ann drags it out and thumbs it to life, blinking blearily at the screen until it comes into focus.

 _1 New Msg_ \-- from _Goro._

> **GA:** this is your doing, isn’t it?  
>  **AT:** ?  
>  **GA:** nevermind.  
>  **GA:** thank you.  
>  **AT:** lol youre welcome??  
>  **GA:** you’re not allowed to share this with anyone else  
>  **GA:** if you do i’ll deny it  
>  **GA:** but i’m going to miss you  
>  **GA:** well. i suppose what i mean is that i’d miss you, if i was capable of doing so.  
>  **GA:** you’re a good person, takamaki

_Thanks, Ann. You’re a good friend._ Sniffling a little, and wiping at her eyes, Ann replies:

> **AT:** the best!!!  
>  **AT:** i’ll miss u too, goro  
>  **GA:** no need to lie  
>  **AT:** not a lie!!  
>  **AT:** i  
>  **AT:** i hope you find peace, goro  
>  **AT:** if nothing else, you deserve that  
>  **GA:** goodnight, takamaki  
>  **AT:** goodnight, goro

She closes her messaging app, and watches as her phone screen goes dark. It’s past midnight, if the clock on the screen is accurate.

_Good morning, February third._


End file.
